


Dirge Without Music

by cymraeg



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-11
Updated: 2011-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 12:14:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cymraeg/pseuds/cymraeg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was written for a kinkmeme fill in which the original prompt was: <i>Anon is in the mood for some heart wrenching sadness. Hawke is dying from some horrible disease, something like a heart disease, or maybe cancer? Something that is incurable by either medicine, or magic, and LI being distraught/angry that Hawke lived through all of the fighting in Kirkwall, only to be taken by a foe they couldn't fight. Would prefer M!Hawke, but F!Hawke works just as well, and any LI of the authors choice.</i><br/>Rip my heart out anons, make me want to curl up into the fetal position and bawl my eyes out!<br/>Bonus points for Hawke being at peace with dieing.<br/>+my first born for the phrase "See you on the other side."</p>
<p>I've cleaned it up a little and reposted it here, because every time I check out this site something I really loved on the kinkmeme is posted. :P</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirge Without Music

_More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world._ \--Edna St. Vincent Millay  
***

The healer in Ostwick was a fool, Fenris decided; and the physician in Markham was a charlatan. Hawke, humoring Fenris’ ill-temper like so many times before, agreed to move on to Starkhaven. In exchange, Fenris agreed - aloud - not to contact Sebastian once they got there.

They were half a day away from the city when Hawke fell ill again. They had stayed overnight in a small inn and in the morning, when Hawke got out of bed, he simply collapsed into a graceless heap next to it. Fenris, who had been buckling on his armor on the other side of the room, leaped to his side a fraction of a second too late to catch him.

Hawke groaned and tried to sit up. “Hold still,” said Fenris. He could feel the fever now and Hawke’s eyes were blinking with agony. Fenris gathered Hawke in his arms and lifted him back onto the bed. _Too light_ , he thought worriedly. He wasn’t sure how much weight Hawke had lost since this illness began, but he was definitely lighter than the last time Fenris had lifted him, which was during the last bout of fever 2 weeks prior.

Fenris tucked the quilt tightly around Hawke, then pulled the shutters tight, blocking out the morning sunlight. Dipping a cloth into a basin of water and wringing it out, he sat next to Hawke and gently laid it over the other man’s eyes.

“Sorry about this, Fenris,” Hawke said, in a slightly cracked voice.

“Hush,” said Fenris. “How bad is it this time?”

“I think this is it,” Hawke said conversationally. “The end, the finish, what have you. Goodbye, Fenris; I’ll see you on the other side. We had a great run.”

“Don’t make me slap you,” growled Fenris.

“I think that really might kill me,” Hawke said with a low groan, and put one hand to his temple. Fenris stroked his head, knowing there was little else he could do when one of these attacks came on. Keep the room dark, a cool cloth on his forehead and some herbs for the pain; it was all he could do, and it wasn’t enough.

Not by a long shot.

Knowing this would get worse before it got better ( _Maker, please let it get better_ ) Fenris dropped a quick kiss on Hawke’s burning forehead and said “I’ll be back in just a few minutes.”

“I’ll no doubt be dead by then,” answered Hawke serenely.

“Don’t even consider it.”

When he was reasonably certain that Hawke would be okay alone for a few minutes, he went downstairs and explained to the portly and unctuous innkeeper that his companion was ill and they would be staying a few days longer.

The innkeeper explained that he was very sorry but staying a few days longer was simply not possible.

Fenris, a touch more emphatically, explained that his companion was _very_ ill and in no fit condition to move at the moment, but that after a few days rest they would be on their way.

The innkeeper, a trifle condescendingly, explained that a sick guest was absolutely terrible for business and that it simply would not be good practice to allow them to remain in his establishment, but if they’d like to move to the inn up the road –

Fenris, grabbing the innkeeper by the collar and dragging him halfway over the bar, explained that an even worse thing for business than a sick guest was a proprietor whose heart had been forcibly removed from his chest and stuffed up his rectum.

The innkeeper, gasping for breath and face reddening, explained that he’d never considered business practices from that point of view before but now that it had been explained so clearly, he could certainly see the advantage; and that of course messere and his companion were welcome to stay as long as necessary and was there anything else they required? Anything? Anything at all?

Fenris dropped the innkeeper and told him to have a messenger ready to carry a letter to Starkhaven within the hour.

***

Sebastian Vael arrived just after nightfall, with both a mage and a physician in tow. The innkeeper, simultaneously terrified and gratified, could hardly stop bowing and scraping long enough to direct them to the room and inform His Grace that the room next door was entirely at his disposal, as were any of the other rooms and anything else in the inn, down to the last rat.

When Fenris stepped into the hallway Sebastian grabbed him by the shoulders and peered searchingly into his face. “By the Maker, it’s good to see you, my friend!” Sebastian exclaimed. Fenris nodded and stepped out of the Prince’s grasp as discreetly as possible. Motioning for silence, he said in a low voice: “He’s sleeping, and he needs it.”

Still groveling, the innkeeper showed Fenris and Sebastian into an adjacent room. At Fenris’s nod of permission, the physician and the mage entered Hawke’s room, shutting the door behind them. Sebastian’s blue eyes were as sharp as ever, and Fenris didn’t fail to notice the raised eyebrow at his silent acceptance of the mage.

Sebastian sat at the table. Fenris wandered around the room, picking up a candlestick here, a book there, while the innkeeper quickly made up the fire and then bowed himself out, promising wine and fruit in short order. Fenris ignored him. Sebastian nodded graciously and thanked him.

When they were alone, Sebastian blew out a breath and said “Please tell me what’s going on, Fenris. I haven’t seen you or Hawke since I left Kirkwall, and I wasn’t expecting to be summoned to an inn in the middle of nowhere.”

“I…wasn’t expecting you to come personally,” Fenris said at last. “In fact Hawke is going to be furious when he realizes you’re here.”

Sebastian looked puzzled. “But why? Hawke and I have been friends for years, fought side by side in Kirkwall and many other places – surely he knows there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“He knows,” said Fenris. “He just doesn’t want to ask. He feels like his illness is a weakness, and he didn’t want you to know.”

“Your message said he had been taken ill on the road and you needed a healer at once. That’s not a terribly abnormal occurrence. I’m happy to help. My personal physician is the finest in Starkhaven and if he can’t help, there’s a man in Markham –“

“We’ve seen the man in Markham,” Fenris said roughly.

Sebastian paused. Again, Fenris was reminded that the man’s piety did not mean he’d abandoned his wits - if anything, it had sharpened them.

“This isn’t sudden, is it?”

It was Fenris’s turn to sigh. “No. It’s been progressing for months now. In fact I think he was first feeling it in Kirkwall, before…well, before everything went to the Void. I think Anders knew about it, in fact.”

Sebastian’s eyes tightened a bit at the martyred mage’s name, but he said nothing; just waited for Fenris to continue.

“It comes on in spells; a high fever, a terrible headache, and I think, although he doesn’t say it, he’s in pain more and more between the spells. He’s losing his edge, his focus…he’s lost too much weight, he’s always tired…” Fenris stopped. Listing the symptoms was pointless, simply nibbling around the edges of the issue. “He says it’s what his father died of, some illness he doesn’t even know the name of. He’s convinced himself he’s dying, and he’s disconnecting, day by day, from everything.”

“That’s why he abdicated the Viscount’s seat,” Sebastian said, with sudden understanding.

“Yes,” said Fenris. “He was ready to cloister himself in that estate with no one but Orana and the dog, and wait for death. I finally convinced him to seek out a healer, but when I did –“ Fenris pinched the bridge of his nose, remembering; “they _agreed_ with him.”

“I see,” said Sebastian.

“Of course, there wasn’t much help to be had in Kirkwall,” Fenris continued. “But every one of these bouts seems to make him worse, leave him a little weaker, so I finally convinced him to go to Ostwick to see the healer there.”

“And he said?”

“The same. And the same again in Markham.”

“But what, exactly?”

“That it’s a known illness – ‘Maker’s Burden’ in some quarters, ‘Korcari Fever’ in others – and that having a relative with it makes one more susceptible. That he might have been infected with it when his father was ill and it’s only come to life now.”

“So what have they done for him?” asked Sebastian.

“Nothing!” snarled Fenris, suddenly throwing the candlestick he’d been examining against the opposite wall. It wasn’t as soothing as throwing a wine bottle, but it was all he had to hand. “The stupid fools seem content to let him just wither away and die! The Champion of Kirkwall!”

Sebastian watched him, and there was a certain pity in his eyes, as well as a hint of acceptance. It was the acceptance that made Fenris turn away from him angrily. He and Sebastian had developed a friendship over the years, but he had never come to terms with the man’s ability to simply _accept_ things which were unacceptable to Fenris.

Sebastian was puzzled by something though. “What about the others? Surely you and he aren’t out here alone?”

“Yes,” said Fenris. “He doesn’t want anyone else to know.”

“So nobody knows? Aveline, Varric – nobody realizes how sick he is?”

“No,” replied Fenris. “He agreed to let me try and find a cure, and to travel with me, but just me. As long as I didn’t let on what the real problem was. I thought there might be healers in Starkhaven who could help, but he only agreed as long as I agreed not to tell you.”

“But you did,” said Sebastian. “Why is that?”

Fenris dropped into a chair across from Sebastian. “He’s getting worse,” he said simply. “I’m afraid he’s running out of time, and I need - _he_ needs help.”

They waited, then; catching each other up on the news in Kirkwall and Starkhaven. Aveline was expecting a child. Sebastian’s usurper cousin was proving unexpectedly useful as Master of Mabari. The weather had been frightful in the spring.

At last the door to the room next door was quietly opened and shut, and the physician and the mage joined them. Fenris rose, seeking – begging, he felt – some kind of reassurance in either face.

There was none to be had.

The physician spoke first, to Sebastian: “Your Grace, I’m afraid he’s much more ill than I realized. This is a known malady, and it’s invariably fatal.”

Fenris tensed; Sebastian had the sense to rise and interpose himself between the warrior and the physician.

The mage spoke next, his words clipped and curt. “He’s dying. Magic can’t help. All I can do – all _anyone_ can do – is try and alleviate his pain. There are herbs – “

“I’m not interested in _herbs_ ” snarled Fenris.

Sebastian raised a placating hand.

“Is there nothing that can be done for him at all?” he asked. “If not here, where can he go to seek a cure?”

“Your grace,” said the physician, seemingly at a loss, “I wish I could tell you otherwise, but there _is_ no cure. “ The mage remained silent, but looked somehow vindicated.

“What if it were me?” asked Sebastian softly.

“Your – your Grace?” stammered the physician.

“If the illness were mine, your liege lord’s,” Sebastian said. “If I were the man with this sickness, would you also say the same? If it were _not_ the man who sided against mages in Kirkwall, the man who executed the Mage’s Martyr, would you still say the same?”

The mage paled, and the physician stammered some more.

Eventually, it was the mage who spoke. “You could take him to Cumberland,” he said at last. “The most advanced and skilled healing mages are to be found there. If there is any cure, they would have it.”

“So,” said Sebastian, “if it were me, would you take me to Cumberland for a cure?”

There was a long silence. Then: “No, your grace. It would only delay the inevitable.”

Fenris realized he was grinding his teeth so hard that he could hear them cracking, ever so faintly.

***

The physician and the mage departed before midnight, leaving behind a pile of herbs and a sheaf of instructions. Fenris carefully packed them all away, with the rest.

He slept fitfully, on the floor of the room he shared with Hawke, while Sebastian sat up. Toward morning, he heard the two of them speaking in soft tones, and Hawke laughing, if weakly. The sound soothed him, and he sank back into dreams in which no one was ill, or possessed, or enslaved. It was pleasant while it lasted.

He awoke near midday. Sebastian was dozing in a chair next to the bed. Hawke was sitting up, leafing through a book.

Hawke saw him stir, and glared. “So much for ‘tell no one.’”

“You needed a healer. I knew Sebastian would have the best.”

“So what now? Off to Starkhaven to languish in the castle? I can see myself in a tower – ‘Champion, oh Champion, let down your hair…’”

“Hawke,” said Fenris impatiently.

“Oh fine. But really, what now, great and fearless protector? I assume home is out of the question…”

Fenris spoke carefully, knowing that Hawke would hear the lie if he didn’t. “Well. The Starkhaven healers seem to think that Cumberland might have the best chance at a cure.”

“Cumberland,” said Hawke flatly.

“Yes. It’s a bit of a journey, but a fine city, I’m told.”

“You think that’s best, do you.”

“I do.”

“It’s not going to help, Fenris.”

“It may.”

Hawke leaned back against his pillows, looking tired. The circles under his eyes were pronounced, and the lines of pain on his face, which usually faded after one of the fever spells passed, were pronounced.

“As you wish, Fenris.”

They left for Cumberland the next morning, sharing a horse that Sebastian loaned them. They’d been riding two when they arrived at the inn, but the bout of fever had left Hawke even weaker than when they arrived, and Sebastian’s stout charger was more than enough to carry the two of them.

“Are you sure, Fenris?” Sebastian whispered as Fenris tightened the packroll on the back of the saddle. “Would it not be better to come to Starkhaven or even back to Kirkwall, let him rest…”

“No,” snapped Fenris. “I refuse to believe this illness can end the man who took down the Arishok, Orsino, Meredith…it will _not_ happen.”

“Very well then,” said Sebastian disapprovingly. “But I’m only allowing it because he said he’s willing to go.”

“You’re _allow-_ ” Fenris began, irate; but Sebastian crossed his arms and stared at him. _This man is my friend,_ Hawke’s _friend_ Fenris reminded himself.

“We’ll be fine, Sebastian,” he said, instead. “HE will be fine. I will see to it.”

“Andraste’s grace guide you,” Sebastian replied formally. Fenris helped Hawke onto the horse, climbed on in front of him. Too-slender arms stole around his waist; too-thin hands clasped themselves together in front of him. _Please,_ Fenris thought, to no one in particular. _Please._

They rode for two days, taking the trip easily; Fenris not wanting to push Hawke’s waning strength. They talked of nothing significant, and sometimes Hawke dozed against Fenris' back.

On the third night, the fever came again. The bouts were coming closer together now.

Fenris pulled the blanket over the two of them, huddled close together with Hawke near the fire. It was a warm night, and Fenris was already sweating, but Hawke shuddered from head to toe and his teeth chattered as if he were freezing to death.

“Fenris-“ he gasped.

“Shhh,” said Fenris, clutching him tightly. “Don’t try to talk.”

“I think this is really it! Off beyond the Veil I go, my soul sundered from yours, never the twain to meet again until—“

“Hawke, please,” begged Fenris. “Stop joking about this.” He buried his face in the crook of Hawke’s neck and stifled a sob.

Hawke stiffened against him briefly, and then relented. “Okay, love. No more jokes.” No more words, then; Fenris held him until the fever passed, fed him herbs to ease the pain, and eventually, they resumed their slow trek.

***

They came to a crossroad.

“No more than another day to Cumberland,” Fenris said, pointing to the rightmost branch. “We’re almost there, love.”

Hawke, who had been drowsing against his back most of the morning, looked up.

“I’m not going to Cumberland.”

Fenris was so stunned, it took him a moment to respond. “You -- _what_?”

“I’m not going to Cumberland. You go if you want to. I’m going that way,” and Hawke pointed off to the left “because according to the map, that will have me on the coast in less than a day. I’d like to die near the sea, and if it isn’t the Wounded Coast, all the better.”

“NO!” Fenris half yelled. “The point of this journey is to get you to Cumberland and get you some help!”

Hawke dismounted from the horse behind him, causing it to shy a bit as he grabbed it for balance, but then he found his own, and Fenris, despite looking down on his lover from horseback, was reminded that sick or not, this man was a warrior and a champion.

“I’m not going to Cumberland, and the last I checked, I can still make choices for myself,” Hawke said in a level tone. Then he turned and started walking toward the coast. There was no hesitation in his stride, and although he wasn’t as fast as he used to be when he led companions throughout the countryside in search of adventure, his back was straight and his head was high.

Fenris sat on the horse and watched him until he was out of sight.

He caught up to Hawke half an hour later. Hawke was still striding determinedly toward the coast.

Hawke didn’t apologize for the argument, but when Fenris extended an arm to help him back up onto the horse, he accepted it.

Fenris didn’t apologize either, but once Hawke was safely mounted behind him, he kept the horse’s head pointed toward the sea.

Eventually Hawke murmured, “You can’t save me, Fenris.”

“Then let me love you,” Fenris replied softly. There was no response, just Hawke’s head, resting against his shoulder.

***

It didn’t take long to find a small seaside town, and it didn’t take much longer to find a small house to rent, situated on an outcrop overlooking the ocean. Hawke sat on the bluff, wrapped in a cloak, while Fenris swept the place out. It was only two rooms, but they were light and airy; in the daytime the sea wind blew through with a scent like morning, and in the night, the fire warmed them as they slept, entwined together. Fenris found a village woman to bring them a daily supply of fruit, bread and sometimes wine or tea; a pump in the back yard provided water colder and cleaner than Fenris had ever tasted.

The days passed, Hawke growing a little paler and a little weaker with each one, and they waited.

They were there nearly two weeks before the next fever came. Fenris, deluding himself, had hoped the respite meant that Hawke was improving, despite the fact that his lover grew more ghostlike with each passing day.

But when Hawke stood up from the table and staggered against him, Fenris felt the fever burning off of him in waves again, and knew the respite was over. He helped Hawke over to the bed and wrapped a quilt around him.

“This – this – this is it, Fenris!” Hawke said through chattering teeth. “This is the big one!”

“You promised not to joke about his anymore,” Fenris growled.

“I know…I know I did,” said Hawke, barely above a whisper, and he buried his face in Fenris’s chest.

The night was endless. Fenris tried everything he knew; herbs, a cooling cloth, sheathing the room in darkness, but nothing assuaged Hawke’s pain and the fever made him forget himself, forget _Fenris._ In the darkest hour Fenris could only clutch him tightly and pray, as Hawke struggled and screamed in his arms; pray that the Maker would finally have mercy and end this misery. He damned himself for the fact that he didn’t know whether he wanted that mercy more for Hawke or for himself.

But at dawn the fever broke, and Hawke regained himself again, kissing his hand apologetically although he hadn’t the strength to say much. Fenris helped him wash, and then shaved him (because he knew Hawke hated a beard) and then left him to rest, as sleep was claiming him again. Fenris sat next to him for a long time, stroking his hair, leaning down to kiss his ashen cheek. Hawke’s breathing was shallow, but steady, and finally Fenris went into the yard to practice some moves with his sword. He knew of no other way to ease the tension in his limbs, and for a while he could forget the guilt and fear.

Around midmorning, Hawke came out of the house; unsteadily made his way to the bottom porch step and sat down. He was wrapped in a cloak and looked very young, but also more alert than Fenris had seen him in days. Fenris hurried to him.

“Don’t stop,” Hawke said, smiling up at him. “I can’t manage it myself anymore but I enjoy criticizing you.”

“I’ll go back, I promise,” said Fenris, smiling in return. “Are you warm enough? Are you hungry? There’s bread and fruit…”

“Are there apples? I would love an apple,” said Hawke. Fenris found him an apple in the basket the village woman had left early in the morning, and returned to his sword forms.

While he flowed through them, he talked to Hawke about inconsequential things. Had Aveline’s baby been born yet? Sebastian said Varric sent a letter that Chantry Seekers were seeking the Champion. (A weak scoff from Hawke at that.) The village woman, Ieyna, seemed to have eyes for Fenris. “I’m jealous,” said Hawke, in mock offense. Fenris smiled at him again, before setting the sword aside. He looked around him. Hawke was braced against the bottom stairpost, smiling back.

Fenris looked around, at the trees, the sea nearby. He could hear it sighing against the shore, a sound he’d never heard in Kirkwall, where the waves were as chained as the people.

Overhead a bird circled. “Is that a hawk?” Fenris asked wonderingly. “If it is, the maker does have sense of humor.”

Something nudged against his foot, and he looked down. It was an apple. Startled, he turned to Hawke. The long fingers which had held the apple were relaxed, and Hawke's eyes were closed. His face was still gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes; but the look of pain…that was gone, at last.

Fenris stepped toward him, silently, as if he were in the Chantry, and knelt in front of him, as if at prayer. Very gently, he pulled Hawke to him, and he held him there, that last time, with the scent and sound of the sea surrounding them. Somewhere, a hawk cried out.

***

He buried Hawke on the bluff over the ocean, far enough from the town not to be disturbed. Over him he raised a cairn of stones in lieu of fire.

He didn’t know what to say over the grave, so he said nothing. Eventually, he stepped to the edge of the bluff and looked down at the sharp rocks where the waves crashed themselves to pieces. He wondered how many pieces he would crash into, if he leapt from the bluff onto the rocks below. He wondered if it would hurt less than staying alive.

He stayed by the grave that night, and the next. The village woman found him there, and didn’t speak, but left the basket of bread and fruit behind. In the mornings, when she returned, she found the bread gone and any fruit but apples eaten; the apples she found scattered on the cairn of stones.

On the third day, he rose from the bluff, and found the horse, which had been turned loose to roam when they arrived. He saddled it, left the rent money in a basket on the table in the house, and rode away.

When he came to the crossroad, he hesitated for a long moment. Then, he turned the horse’s head toward Starkhaven.

_I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground._  
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:  
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned  
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.  
\--Edna St. Vincent Millay


End file.
